the mind fogeys the hand 'emembers 
the shep of the shovel or the grist in the fingers 
the invisible prick of the sewing needle 
wrists wrought under press
twist to and fro with the shuttle tremor
plenty-of-time plenty-of-time
echoing in the tinnitus of the ear holes
and in the spots the rot the sun leaves 
around the eyes goes leather with the squint. 

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